Fear of Ghosts
by Dauthi
Summary: It doesn't matter how long it's been. The ghosts will haunt her until she faces them and puts them to rest. KonoSetsu. Complete.
1. Mental is Where the Ghosts Are

_**Fear of Ghosts  
**Chapter 1: Mental Is Where The Ghosts Are_

First multiparter for the Negima fandom, something like the 5th or 6th one total, although I've only ever actually finished one. But I really think I've got enough dedication to the fandom(KonoSetsu, you've consumed my LIFE, I would hope I have enough dedication to finish this)to be able to finish a multiparter, so let's hope for me eh?

* * *

I've always thought about her. 

I could never stop thinking about her. Everywhere I'd walk, I'd see her ghost – enjoying herself on a swing in the playground I walk by, weaving together a daisy chainin thepublic parkby my recluse, staring at me with that awful sad look on the sidewalk as I turned away and left her behind…

I couldn't protect her like this. I couldn't protect her with the knowledge of past failures and the extreme amount of personal interest I took into her safe-being. I couldn't do it, sick with worry when I wasn't with her and dazed beyond any sort of alertness when I was. I couldn't protect her precisely because I wanted to so much.

A car screeches by and sprays a fountain of muddy water over me, and I realize that I'm loitering about in a rather suspicious manner, the image only enhanced by the splattered drops of mud streaming down my clothes. I scowl at the car slightly maliciously, but the halo of silky black hair framing the person in the leather-lined driver's seat stuns me and wipes my mind clear for a moment.

But of course it's not her. The hair is too long, although she could've certainly grown it out by this time, and it has faint red highlights, even though that could've been manufactured as well. But it's not her simply because I know.

I wouldn't meet Konoka here anyway. I haven't seen her in the last eight years – what's there to change that now?

A bitter laugh forces its way out of me, choked and strained but still harsh and grating to my ears. Eight years, and I'm still thinking about her every moment of my life, her shadow lingering in places that even I cannot see.

What am I doing here? Why can't I let her go? I'm a fucking college student now, living on my own, complete with a job and my own girlfriend.

I shift to the far side of the cement sidewalk as another car rushes by, showering me with even more murky water.

I don't usually take careful notice of these things, but today the pavement is gray and it's the only thing I can concentrate on. The sky is a swirl of gray and darker gray and the light pole is a metallic gray that I sidestep, landing into a reflective gray surface.

The ripples created by my foot, tiny and shimmering across an irregular blob pull me in and entrance me, and I stare into it as jet black hair pulled into a ponytail with a yellow hair band and opaque black eyes slowly come into focus.

I can't claim to say that I'm ugly, because I'm not. I'm not a classical beauty(not like Konoka with her perfectly slanted jaw line and double eyelids and smooth creamy skin that screams of generations upon generations of aristocratic breeding) but I'm quite far off from bad-looking. Apparently I have the "vulnerable look down pat," as my girlfriend says, "like a model." ("A beautiful model who belongs only to me" Kisses and caresses and that godawful awareness)

The part of my hair that's pulled back exposes clearly my eye, and within the stone-like reflection I can see myself again and again, and somehow an image of Konoka weaves itself into the irises so that I see _her_ over and over again as well, duplicated in my mind's eye and upon the now-still water, like the millions of mirrors in an insect's eye.

My foot lifts and then smashes forcefully into the puddle, shattering the haunting illusion that continues to mock me behind my eyelids. I can feel a wetness seeping through the tattered soles of my sneakers and a wetness pricking at the back of my eyelids, but it doesn't really matter.

People could call me pretty. Ironically I am anything but that.

I think it's raining.

I am a sorry mess, an absolute train wreck. I work in a dead-end job as a cashier and I go to college because it's the natural path for an educated girl, automated steps taken blindly up a ladder of impossible proportions for those people with impossible dreams that sometimes obtain them. I have an apartment with a small closet that stores everything memorable (everything with _her_) in it and I have a girlfriend that I'm with for no reason, and when we have sex and she whispers passionately into my ear that she loves me I mumble half-truths that are danker than lies, cutting harder and deeper and bloodier because truth spills blood and lies spill blood and both together spill even more blood.

I am a monster, ugly and scarred on the inside, hurting and betraying everyone I know and meet.

Somehow my hands are scrabbling at a brick wall as if I was about to fall, and the palms are already chafed and baby-like pink and in another few moments they'll be bright red. I continue clawing for dear life as I sink down into a bottomless asphalt floor.

Konoka and I once tried playing soccer on asphalt because she spotted a yellow and black soccer ball rolling about on the field. It was flat and kicking it was a chore, but we had fun until Konoka tripped and scraped her knee against the asphalt and started sniffling. I treated it, and then we swore that we wouldn't do any physical sport across a floor like that anymore.

Fuck. I can even relate _asphalt_ to Konoka.

I must look like a real addict because a crack dealer tentatively approaches me to offer his wares, which he definitely wouldn't have done had he not been absolutely sure that I would buy.

I think I try to say no, but I'm not really sure because the only thing I can think of uttering is mindless gibberish – all understandable words have left me. At any rate he backs up and returns back to his dark and dangerous alley, a disappointed look on his face from having taken a huge risk of being caught and getting nothing for it.

What would Konoka say if she was here and she saw me? Unable to even hold a normal conversation right now.

My life is so fucked up.

But it was that way without Konoka before, and has always been that way without Konoka (sparkling charming eyes and a brilliantly wide smile that would melt away any problems and were definitely not learned from those stuffy rich old men whose only law was of power) so life isn't any different, really.

Today is the anniversary. The beginning of the eighth year that I've left Konoka in better hands. The opening of the same raw infected wound, only just beginning to scab over.

A wave of black in the corner of my eye and my head raises up as if actually expecting there to maybe be some sudden apparition of Konoka, hair done delicately up and bundled up in her favorite pink kimono, although all that would be completely mussed upby the time Ineared the end of the daydream.

It's just a woman walking her tiny terrier, looking absolutely miserable in the rain slapping against the sidewalk in a rhythmic splash-splash.

My gaze turns to my hands, streaked with a crimson that diluted and faded to a colorless gray. Suddenly I slam my palms against the ground and then drag my fingers along the rough texture hard, coloring them pink until my fingers finally clench into fists, blood dripping steadily from the hollow where they are all curled up, knuckles scraped absolutely unrecognizable.

A moment later all the red pigment is washed away and there is only a dreary gray again.

I should probably be getting home. Slowly I stagger to my feet and then totter along the well-known path to my apartment, my vision clouded by the haze brought on my the rain and my own confusion.

As I walk I pass a lot of dejected and melancholy people, and also a rowdy group of stuck-up teenagers who think chain-smoking and picking on other kids at school makes them rebellious and cool. As I meander past them one of them, perhaps their leader, calls out to me mockingly, "How about coming with me for a night, pretty lady? I bet I could make you feel fantastic." At this the rest of the group chuckles, some more heartily than others.

Normally I would ignore then and continue on my way, knowing that they could never best me in anything. Today though something makes me stop and turn to face them. This is ridiculously stupid – I can't fight worth my life when I'm in this kind of state of mind, but then again that's probably precisely why I confront them.

A thin smile creases my face as my eyes narrow into their most threatening expression, but the smile freezes on my face as my eyes focus on the girl standing to the left of and behind him.

For several moments I truly think that girl, with her eyes looking downwards and meekly hunched upon herself is Konoka, because everything about her just fits _perfectly_, and my eyes widen.

The boy who yelled out to me thinks I'm staring at him, for he puffs out his nonexistent chest, brushing back gelled hair with a flourish and saying slowly to his friends, "I think we got us some beautiful booty today," before sauntering towards me, emboldened by his friends' supporting laughter.

It's not Konoka. It could almost be, but Konoka would never let herself be broken like that (not that she'd have to) and even if she did, it's just _not_ Konoka.

The sudden surge of anger and emptiness nearly suffocates me in its raw emotion, and my hand automatically darts out and grabs the youth by his tender neck, squeezing it hard then lifting him up, his terrified expression the perfect outlet for assuaging this overflow of feeling. Briefly the thought of destroying his nuts flickers in the back of my head, a pathway to a long ago memory of a certain Negi-senpai and a heavenly Kyoto field trip, which begins to send rays of pain echoing through the back of my head, but I block it out and instead just toss him into the bus stop sign. That kid really needs to bulk up more if he wants to be ghetto.

A harsh rasping sound bubbles from my throat but somehow comes out silky and deadly, warning the brash boy, "Don't play around, kid."

The group falls deathly silent and I stalk off, but not before the girl lifts up her head and catches me in the eye. A plea for help is shining in her eyes, but I can only ignore it. (And if she was Konoka?)

Eventually a brick wall sprinkled with vivid pink and green graffiti comes into view. As I stride I examine my bloody hands and wonder what I should tell her, if I tell her anything at all. After all, I didn't the last year or the year before that, I just let her treat them and went to bed.

It doesn't really matter anyway.

At the entrance I pause, fumbling in my pocket for keys that seem to have disappeared. I am pretty sure I put them into the left pocket of my jeans, but they don't seem to be there, so I continue scrabbling for those damned elusive keys.

"Um, miss? You seem to have dropped your k-"

The voice suddenly breaks off, and I stand there stock still, still facing the wall. I become hyperaware of everything, even the blood that slowly trickles down my hands, gory and ugly in the moonlight.

It's like a dam is being opened, a flood of memories that roars loudly in my ears as I hear the one voice I will always be able to pick out.

"S-s-s-s-s-se-chan?"

I turn slowly, almost terrified that this is an illusion again. But my illusions never spoke merely wafted translucently while I grasped onto them because they were the most concrete thing I had left.

My breath hitches in my throat. The moonlight is striking her right on her head so that her eyes are bright and clear, and­ she hasn't changed at all. And yet she's changed so much. Her eyes are so, so different. She could truly be the girl hanging with that group at the bus stop, although they are still not the same.

A primal gurgling sound tickles at the back of my throat, and I hear a strange low keening noise that I realize with horror belongs to me. Somehow though, words seem to squeeze themselves out of my choked throat.

"Konoka?"

* * *

I am satisfied with this part. Which is really not very good, since one should never be satisfied with their work, but hey, it happens. We shall see when and if I come back to this another year how happy I am with it then.

Although I think the title needs some serious work. xx Pretty bad, I say. Well, whatever.

On a side note, I just heard that now does not allow the author to reply to his/her reviewers? Like at the bottom of the next chapter or something. Is this true?

Anyway, constructive criticism is appreciated!


	2. Blind Sight

_**Fear of Ghosts**_

_Chapter 2: Blind Sight_

Well, I wrote a lot this chapter. Wasn't originally thinking it was gonna be this long, but then it kept on going and going. And the good news is that chapter 3 is planned out in my head already! The bad news is that it'll probably go at the same pace it's going now, which is 2-3 weeks for an update, although I think that's decent enough. Meh, whatever.

* * *

Tears well up in her eyes, and she takes an awkward, stilted, what seems to be a half-step forward, half step backward movement before she freezes and simply stares at me.

Her eyes are still the same chocolate-tinted brown, soft and kind, but inside them there's a different, hesitant disbelief that certainly never would've appeared in the Konoka from years past.

It makes me wonder – do I really know her anymore?

"Secchan?" she whispers again, as if she needed confirmation from more than how I look and the way I instantly knew her name.

I'm almost surprised to not be glomped or hear a squeal of joy or even see a smile transforming her face. Instead we just face each other, an awkward pregnant silence swelling between us.

There are so many questions I want to ask her, need to ask her, but at the same time, she is a book I have forcefully wrenched closed every year, and opening it so suddenly now would be so completely wasteful of all the effort I'd expended.

And yet, the mere sight of her, raven black hair framing a child-like beautiful face melts through the chains I have bound upon myself like molten lava devouring flimsy aluminum. It's a bitter smile that threatens to make its way upon my face as I realize I have not changed so much after all – her movements and actions, and even her inaction completely controls how I feel and what I want to do.

And right now I really want to just talk to her. Anything to calm or soothe this mounting buzz in my head, flashes and snatches of colorful memories that threaten to explode out of my carefully constructed mental prison.

It should be simple to ask her for coffee, but the words are lodged in the back of my throat, because I shouldn't be so forward, not with someone as important as her.

A harsh chuckle tries to force its way out – even after I've left her for her own safety, renounced my ways, I still feel ridiculously meek in her compassionate, frayed (where did that come from?) aura.

"Konoka ojou-sama." The words slip out of my mouth without thought, the same funny lilt in my voice that always happened when I talked about her. I'm calling her ojou-sama again, even though she hasn't been for a very long time.

Not officially anyway. I know that I will always be her faithful servant where it really counts, though a little voice nags at me in the back of my head, irritating in its little whine that can't be made out.

We both smile a little bit at my words, and the edgy tension is lifted for a bit as she pouts, just like the old days.

As soon as the stifled air is gone it's back again, heavy and crushing me beneath its invisible force.

I'd resolved years ago that I would let go of this, but it still haunts me, taunts me with a horrid grinning face, marred with scars, a face that only I can see, hanging behind Konoka cackling with a demonic burning in its eyes. I said I would let go of my servitude to her, swore I would stop ruining her perfect ethereal personality with my dirty dirty blood-stained soul.

And yet how sweet it is to lay my eyes upon her.

Finally I force myself to talk, anything to unfetter this brittle tension, slowly dragging the atmosphere down like a heavy rock hanging to a piece of string, until the string snaps and all chaos breaks loose. It's a hard battle, raw gurgles choking at the back of my throat, but I manage to burst out a couple of syllables.

"Coffee?"

Konoka scrutinizes me for a few more moments, brown eyes squinting in disbelief as if I were merely corporeal and just another vision, and I can't bear to look at her eyes, smoldering with emotion yet scattered like ashes, the last vestiges of a fire struggling to stay alive – so I look just beyond her, focusing my attention instead on a plastic bag fluttering in its fight against the claws of the mangled fence. Something, anything so that I don't have to look at that beautiful face and those empty eyes.

Finally she nods, a barely imperceptible motion of the head, and we take off for a random destination, footsteps in muffled accordance. I swear softly to myself as big fat rain droplets splash against my head, not really worried for myself as I am more for Konoka; so stupid for not bringing an umbrella. Luckily she has one already, but she stares strangely at me as she pushes against the silver metal and the midnight black umbrella pops out, polyester skin ready to repel torrid downpours like this one.

I'm not sure what I've done to make her look so strangely at me, but as we start walking she frowns slightly and admonishes me, saying, "Don't swear," before another look crosses her face and she casts her head down, a vacant hardened expression darkening her delicate features; she's beautiful.

Without even thinking I say, "Yes Ojou-sama," and I know that I will keep to that promise, even as I grimace at the reaction she must be about to have at still being called Ojou-sama. Oddly she doesn't say anything, and when I peek out at her through the corner of my eye her head is still tilted towards the ground.

The rain is choosing to hit pretty hard today, and I really can't grumble about it because it was my decision to not bring an umbrella since I thought I wouldn't need it, like I never did. I still don't, really, but she hasn't offered me cover and I'm not about to ask her either, only further showing how wrong and terribly out of place things are.

I really have not the slightest idea where we're headed – Konoka definitely has not been to this area much or I would've spotted her long before this, but somehow we end up in front of this quaint little coffee shop that I've walked by several times when I go to board the subway.

The joint has a general look of dust and disuse, but that's the way everything looks around here, the dust swirled around by the nearby construction site and kicked up by the multitude of people in a hurry to get somewhere. The windows are polished and clean though, and the atmosphere inside is friendly and strangely comforting.

We take a seat at an acceptably cleaned plastic-wooden table, and I pull out the mahogany seat for her, which she takes with a strange look in her eyes. I must be reflecting the same expression, because she laughs, tinkling and clear even though it's tinged with a weary pain in it, and I wince for no particular reason, although there is a faint thought nagging at me, subdued and unclear but still giving me queasy vibes.

Konoka shakes her head and says lightly, "You don't have to pull out my chair for me. You never change, do you, Secchan?"

It slams into me like a five-hundred ton truck, but I mask it quickly, face becoming like the immutable front of a statue. Still, she must've noticed something, for her mood darkens a shade more and she turns her head to the left, eyes staring at the foggy blurry glass windows, the same strange expression fleeting across her again.

I'm determined not to let this become supremely awkward too quickly, so I snatch up the menus the waitress is patiently holding out for us, a little too quickly it seems – the waitress brings her hand back quickly, rubbing it and staring at me with a sour expression before walking away huffily, muttering under her breath.

I grasp the tacky plastic edge of one of the laminated menus, planning to hand it to Konoka, at the same time Konoka reaches for the same pin-striped menu. Our hands brush together, her pinky resting on my thumb, and an electric shock jolts through me, hot and burning and comforting. Suddenly the air between us is charged and crackling, and I quickly let go of the menu, allowing her to take it for herself, terrified and yet loving in a perverse way what just happened between us.

My eyes are averted, staring at a tiny black speck on the floor, and I can _feel_ her doing the same, only she's still staring at the window.

It wasn't right, what just happened, because really, we're just friends, distant friends, (like the rest of my friends, both then and now) and that was just an accident. It will not happen again. _It will not happen again._

My breath is coming in short gasps and I want to bolt away from this place, just do something, anything that either involves Konoka deeply and irretrievably or is away from her, so far-removed that no one's friend's friend's friend has heard of her. _Anything_ besides staring at this fucking (don't swear remember, _Se-chan_? Mocking voices in my head) black dot that I'm not sure is even there anymore; my eyes are starting to sting, but I don't want to reach my hands up and rub them for fear of moving.

The flood of thoughts are starting to howl now, and I open my mind for a second, realizing I can't keep all of these dark images behind a cage forever.

Another bitter smile turns up my face in a hideous way as I allow myself to know that I loved that touch, hungered and desired for it again. And it would happen again if I touched her, though it wasn't going to occur. That brief brush of skin on skin made me feel more than anything I've felt in these last eight years. It made me want to cry, to scream, to smile, to laugh. It made me feel _alive_ again.

"I like your smile," Konoka says softly.

Wonderingly I raise my hand up to my face, realizing that the bitterness has been wiped out completely by my thoughts, forbidden as they are, leaving a clear bright smile that I haven't been able to do in years. (though not for lack of trying or perhaps more accurately half-hearted want)

Konoka reaches her hand out to cup my face, her left hand supple against my cheek, and she grins a responding cheeky smile that flashes me back to middle school, when I last saw her. Her eyes are sparkling again, merely hidden below the surface before, and the air really begins to sizzle between us, making me feel very uncomfortable as my face heats up. A thought flares up bright and blinding, and I savagely push it down, my face darkening again. I say I can't keep everything hidden forever, but there are some things that must stay concealed for everyone's benefit.

Konoka must've noticed, for she removes her hand, a mirroring frown across her face, though since it's Konoka it comes across more like an adorable pout than a frown – but that's how I also know it's a frown, since when she pouts her eyes are much lighter and her lower lip is stuck out much more. Before I've given clear thought to it my hand clasps hers and lays it against my cheek again, rough scabby finger pads scraping against silky smooth skin, (she doesn't say anything about my beaten-up knuckles, although her glance flicks to it) and I hold my breath, letting the strange tingly feelings course through me.

I keep it there, eyes closed until I really can't bear to feel her hand on me anymore, dainty fingers tracing tiny whorls on me, and then I let go of her hand as quickly as I can, any contact burning me so much I'm about to burst into flames.

Finally I let myself breathe, and after a moment I look up, feeling uncertain. She's rubbing and tracing her left hand with her right hand, running over the palm, and she smiles at me shyly, while I smile back.

It would almost be a magical moment, but the waitress comes over, mousy brown hair knotted into a bun, a slightly sadistic and disgusted smile on her face. Her eyes hold the hint of a glare, still offended by my earlier actions, and as she opens her mouth yellowed teeth show through thin lips.

"Would you like to order?" she asks in a high-pitched singsong voice that lets us both know exactly how she feels about us. I keep my face neutral though I'm boiling inside and instead glance at Konoka warily. She's trained her gaze on her menu, but she raises her eyes to meet mine – I flick mine away as soon as I see the movement, a blush staining my cheeks, and she continues to look at the folded piece of plastic before her. We do this for several rounds, each time both of us becoming consecutively redder, until the waitress finally impatiently clears her throat.

Sighing, I take a passing glance at the striped menu before me, although there are only two things on it that I'd ever order.

It's not often that I get something extravagant; whenever I go somewhere I only buy the cheapest things, but today I pick the only other type of coffee I've ever had.

"Blue Mountain coffee please," I say.

Konoka flicks her eyes to glance at me for a second, but then shifts her eyes back to her smudged discolored menu yet again, though she only ever orders one thing, so her menu is really just a farce. Cappucino with extra cream and sugar.

"Cappucino with extra cream and sugar please," she says in such a sweet voice that even the waitress cannot help but give a genuine smile as she jots down the order on her crinkled notepad and walks away, tucking the cheap ballpoint pen behind her ear.

"So."

Suddenly the awkward silence descends over us again, and we stare at the spaces over each other's shoulders. The pit-pattering of the raindrops sliding down the glass is deathly loud as I stare at a couple at the next table, simply twining their fingers and hands together in an endless coordinated motion as they sip at their coffee and smile at each other over their newspapers.

"What happened to your katana?"

Konoka's voice breaks me out of my reverie and I start. Her eyes are now staring at me, her never being one for avoiding things, and my breath catches in my throat as I wonder what to say.

I want to tell her. I want to tell her that I turned it into the Shinmeiryuu, acknowledging myself as a disgrace for leaving my post without their consent, (I'd applied to be moved, but they'd shot it down, calling me a fool, though not so crassly) that it snapped anyway, easily, when they handed it back to me with grave eyes and told me that I should keep it, that it was punishment enough and I might learn something from it. That it lies beneath my bed, bundled in the sky blue blanket she knitted for me, the only thing hers not in that godforsaken closet, splintered jaggedly in half.

Someone told me once that a katana, a sword is like an extension of yourself, of your soul.

I say, "It's at home."

Her eyes stare at me with this indescribably sad look in their brown depths, belying the betrayal and depression that she's forgotten so well on this short trip with me.

Or maybe it's I who just chose not to see it, and throw an illusion over her, pretending that eight years would change nothing about her.

I should know best how time reaches its claws into you and drags you along even if you kick and scream all the way.

The Shinmeiryuu told me that I was blind with both my eyes. (and they told me that under normal circumstances I would be entirely right to request to be dropped from my current mission, but if I could not tell now then I would never amount to anything anyway) It's only now that I realize what they meant, and by kami I would gouge out my own eyes, letting the blood flood out of my sockets, if only I would have been able to _see_.

But just as eight years warps a person irrevocably, so are each of its cruel events immutable, and I can't take back anything that I've done, can't erase the hurt that's infused into every sparkle of happiness that emanates from her.

This time the waitress is a godsend, balancing our two cups of coffee along with a gargantuan platter of treats ordered by some other table. She's wincing as the coffee sloshes from side to side precariously, and when she sets them down on our aquamarine and white checkered table, some of my coffee does spill and scalds her finger. She grimaces and tucks some scraggly strands of hair that haven fallen out of her bun behind her ear, then marches off carrying the metal plate laden with pastries to a rather obese lady decked out in impossibly extravagant furs, doubtless trying to look important and wealthy.

Konoka's already starting on her cappuccino, a blissful smile on her gorgeous face, and I almost dump my little cuplet of cream into my saucer as I watch her bring the porcelain cup to her pink lips, pinky held out with the gracefulness of a true-bred aristocrat. (not like the poser over at the other table who's devouring her second lemon-jelly filled pastry already)

For a while the only sound is the clink-clink of my metal spoon against the cup and the buzzing of the workers bustling about, dampening the rhythmic noise of the slowing but still steady pace of rain splashing against the roof.

Right as I bring the cup to my lips Konoka says, "You used to only get Blue Mountain coffee because Grandpa insisted you get something more expensive than the most basic at our outings."

Her voice startles me and I gulp in a torrent of the scalding liquid, choking on it and having to set down my cup as I scrabble at my throat, eyes bulging out.

Konoka begins to giggle and I turn red and attempt to glare evilly at her, which only makes her laugh more.

"You totally set that up, didn't you?"

Konoka grins, wiping tears from her face and says, "Of course, I was waiting for that moment! You look absolutely hilarious like that."

I can't help but smile back at her burst of joy, and ask, "How is your grandfather anyway?"

Her nose wrinkles adorably and she says, "He's still alive and hasn't changed a bit." I smile a bit and shake my head. If there is one person who would never change, it would probably be Konoemon. "Still trying to find me a husband."

This should probably be heading into another awkward moment, but somehow this feels different, _I_ feel different.

"Oh? So tell me, was the last one a doctor, a lawyer, or some ridiculously powerful magician?"

"Neither, actually. It was just some rich boy whose dad is a big-shot in the stock market, can you believe it? Grandpa must be getting quite desperate."

She laughs, tinkling and clear, and I find myself grinning along, somewhat more reserved.

Even that changes, as it becomes extremely easy and casual, talking to her. I begin laughing as she recalls a story of how some panties came alive and started attacking Chamo, smothering him at every opportunity until he swore off perversion for the rest of his life, and pretty soon we're practically rolling on the floor, giggling at things that aren't even that funny, except that they're told by _her_, or me, or me and her both together getting out related stories.

This has never happened to me before, this sappy washy feeling that unbuckles all my restraints and throws myself into the wind, not even when I was alone with her, and especially never since I abandoned her.

Could this be what the world is like when the shutters are pulled back, finally exposing the real world in vivid colors that speak of harsh hardships but also brilliant moments like this?

Somehow we have gone back to the subject of Konoemon's continued attempts to engage Konoka to an influential man, and she shakes her head resolutely and says firmly, "I don't want any man for me!"

There are layers of meanings behind those forcefully simple words, and I suddenly notice that our fingers have become entwined during the friendly banter, much like the couple at the table behind Konoka who are now leaving, hand in hand.

My mouth has become dry and I feel my hand trembling, palm sweaty and slick against the tabletop. I have the urge to clam up and remove my hand, but I fight it down, telling myself that no, I will not run away and continue to cover my sight with eye patches.

When I finally manage to say the words, they come out in a harsh whisper.

"Then what do you want?"

Konoka stares at me and almost closes her eyes, choking out her words slowly, as if this is a hardship for her even though she has almost no problems with these kinds of things.

"I… want…"

My cell phone rings. The moment is broken as I snatch my right hand away to snap it off my belt, (I'm ambidextrous, but only by hard training, and I still naturally use my right hand if I'm not required to utilize my left hand) fingers fumbling with it and almost dropping it. I want to curse the oblivious ringing device to hell and back, but I truly do intend to keep my promise to Konoka.

I flip open the phone and stare at the caller ID. My girlfriend. I'd completely forgotten about her.

The reality comes crashing back down on me like a tidal wave, as I remember bitterly that this can only be a fantasy, a pointless dream.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end is tinny and nauseating to hear, even though there is actually nothing wrong with it.

"Setsuna, where are you? You were supposed to have been home two hours ago!"

Is it really nine? The darkness had been descending outside, but I assumed it was still decently early.

I scramble in my mind for a reply.

"I'm sorry, I just ran into a former friend. I'll be home really soon, ok?"

I don't think there was anything wrong or revealing about what I said, but something must've slipped or caught in my voice, for all I hear on the other end is some heavy breathing, and suddenly the line goes dead.

I frown as my fingers glide over my LCD display and snap the lid of my cell phone shut. Konoka is staring at me with an inscrutable expression on her face, which slightly scares me because I used to be able to tell instantly how and what Konoka was feeling. (although that is probably very much a lie, for I couldn't see the one thing I should've been able to)

"I… have to go," I say, almost not wanting to believe it myself.

Konoka makes an attempt to smile cheerily, and almost succeeds, but it drops away from her face when I don't smile back, the stoic part of me back in place.

We stand up and start to file away from the table, but not before Konoka places a large fat tip under her coffee saucer, and when the waitress comes over to make the table immaculately clean again she stares at us with wonder and gratefulness reverberating in her entire body.

Konoka has always had a knack for making peoples' days infinitesimally better, and at this I can't help but smile a little, though it doesn't quite reach my eyes.

When we walk out the doors Konoka says, "We should meet again sometime."

I nod my head, not trusting myself to talk.

She turns to me and smirks slightly, an idea forming in her head.

"I'll come to your school and I can meet all your friends and tell them stories about you from when you were still a kid!"

At this I turn bright red and face her. That would be a nightmare, not only because of some particularly embarrassing stories (although all of them involve some doing of Konoka's) but also because the second they see her they would know that the girl I drew in class was real and not just a figment of a perfect fantasy world in my imagination. (except for the fact that she _is_)

I stutter, "O-ojou," then remember a time long ago when we rested in futons and she requested that I call her something else, mouth forming into a cutesy pout, "K-kono-chan…"

She smiles beatifically at me and I allow myself a small smile back, the cherry red receding from my face and leaving a faint blush on my cheeks. This will probably be the last real smile for a while.

"I live that way," she says, and points in the opposite direction that I should be going.

"I'll walk you home."

"No," she shakes her head, "You should probably be getting home too. Whoever it was is probably pretty worried." There's no inflection in her voice, but I can still tell exactly what she's talking about.

"It'll be alright."

"No, really, I'll be fine." Her voice pitches a little bit higher and almost cracks at the end, but she still sounds decently normal.

"Take my jacket, at least." It's still raining, although it's much notably less of a downpour, and even though the raindrops start soaking the t-shirt beneath my black jacket I know I'll be fine as long as she is.

After a long moment of consideration Konoka takes it, purposefully brushing her fingers against my scraped knuckles and sending a jolt through my body. She puts it on slowly, gravely, and then zips it up and just looks at me.

"Thank you."

I'm not sure what to say to that. She has nothing to thank me for, and I certainly can't say you're welcome to her, or anything else that's swimming on my mind right now. In the end I just watch her smile one last time and walk away, standing out starkly in my eyes even as she blends into the murky shadows of the hazy streetlights beyond.

I realize I don't have her number, her address, a time and a place to meet her, or anything at all, really.

As the water begins to drip from my hair into my eyes I brush it back and then stare up at the starless sky, wondering what in the world I'm doing.

* * *

I'm wondering how the balance between angst and joy is going, really. It's kinda hard, but I'm hoping it turns out okay. (hinthint: tell me!) This chapter was really all about reconciliation and the beginning of an explanation. I think I might've made Setsuna too OOC in the carefree talk she has with Konoka, and Konoka probably too but… yeah.

Some issues are addressed in this chapter which some of my readers brought up, but if any of you think of some more things that are off-kilter or probably should be reconciled between Konoka and Setsuna feel free to suggest them! I'll probably incorporate them into my story somehow.

Reviews would be very appreciated. Like, very very.

Another thing is that I would like to request a beta reader for the third chapter. You probably won't be signed on permanently unless you have infinitesmal patience, (I'm pretty bad about sticking to submitting the stories to beta readers and then editing them in a reasonable time frame) but, yeah. (and you should still review. :D)

**Azu Luna:** Hey, that's really cool. It also gives me yet another reason why I need to see Sin City. Why haven't I yet?

**Yuki Myco:** Glad you think so. :) This chapter's probably too OOC though. Anyway, I'm aiming to go through the eight years, so yeah.

**Iamet:** Thanks! You know, I always thought of Setsuna as a rather depressive person, but it seems most everyone else thinks otherwise. Maybe it's just me? At any rate, most will be explained, hopefully.

**The Lizz:** I'll keep checking your author page periodically, so update! Update update update:D

**Setenshi:** Heh, the OOC problem has been not quite addressed, probably excarbarated by this chapter, but I'm trying to think up ways of explaining it!

**The Gnome:** We shall have mushy brains, together! Nah, it probably sounded like an Sayo/Asakura fic. And I'm not really a hardcore Japanese fangirler, so I dunno the distincton between senpai and sensei. Sorry. ((hides))

**Seravy:** Ehn, well, the girlfriend's kinda there now... can't take her away. But I totally see your point. Hmmm, I'll find a way to explain it. Or something. :P

**Kieli:** It's been too long.How are ya?Thanks for the review!

**Scygnus Darkhawk:** Thanks, that's truly very inspiring. I'll try my best to keep up to your standards!

**Darkfumae:** Haha, w00t, alert listness! Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter.

**Vincent Demeriat:** I sent you a PM. Loved that long review, keep them coming. :D


	3. March of the Bunnies

So uh, due to popular request, I have indeed finished the fanfic. It actually took a really short time to write the final chapter. A veeeeeery short time.

I'm not sure what I want to say. Enjoy? I'm not sure you will, but it'd be cool if you did. Seriously.

Life just ain't cut to be that emo man.

But maybe I shouldn't keep you guys in, uh, suspense, much longer.

So without further ado, I present Fear of Ghosts Chapter 3. The finale.

* * *

CHAPTER 3: March of the Bunnies

I haven't seen Konoka since that encounter, but I keep looking for her. Right now I'm even following a rainbow to see if she'll be on the other side, a pot of gold.

Except. Except. It's not a pot of gold I find.

They're spotted everywhere with brown and gray, their fur covers them all over, and their ears are longer than my arms. Eyes red, teeth bared, these horrendous objects are...

RABID BUNNIES.

My katana left back under the bed, I have no defense but ear-piercing screaming, which I don't do, and running away. I turn, but they've already surrounded me. There is no escape.

I see yellow teeth.

---

Konoka was dancing along happily, following the edge of a rainbow, when she saw a pot of gold. Jumping for joy, she ran to it.

"I never thought it would be real!" she exclaimed happily.

Scrabbling up to the rim of the pot and peering inside, she was horrified to find that there was not actually gold. Instead, she saw snapped bones, rabid bunnies, and a uniform. That belonged to Setsuna.

Realizing what had happened, Konoka wibbled, trying to decide between shrieking at the rabid bunnies or sobbing over her beloved Sec-chan.

She felt a tug on her skirt. Then she felt it rip. Then she heard a chomping noise.

Too late, she realized the bunnies had surrounded her. Death was inevitable.

Konoka had to think quickly, and think quickly she did. Stepping on one rabid bunny's head, she leaped into the pot, whereupon she broke both her arms, cracked seven ribs, and knocked out three of her teeth. It hurt.

The bunnies advanced, saliva dripping from their fuzzy mouths.

Konoka closed her eyes and waited for her imminent demise. As long as she was next to Sec-chan, everything would be alright.

---

The bunny population in ADfdbfkhegaegyourfacebhgfha Forest is abnormally high. It has surpassed the normal carrying capacity for many years now, leading scientists to attempt to examine the abiotic factors within the forest. Oddly though, none who enter the ADfdbfkhegaegyourfacebhgfha Forest ever come back out again. As such, the curiosity has been filed into the middle row in the middle cabinet, since putting it at the end gives it a chance of being found, and anyone who ever tries to bring the issue back up is sent to the Forest to try to tag the bunny population. They never return.

* * *

Sooo I'd like to give credit to all those who believed in me and the story, even when it seemed like it has met its doom. I'd like to thank those who said that what I wrote would be excellent no matter what it was. Finally, I'd like to give credit to my mother for giving birth to me. I am a fantastic person. 

Feedback is appreciated. :D


	4. All Ghosts Die At Some Point real Ch3

_Fear of Ghosts_

**Chapter 3 (for real)**

_**All Ghosts Die At Some Point**_

Perhaps I owe an explanation for that crack!chapter that I posted previously. It's been a few years. You've probably grown up. Go take a second look at my story for yourself. It's emo. Incredibly emo.

I grew up too, and I realized that it was horribly, horribly emo. And kind of bad; it was very flowery and long-winded.

Evidently, though, I hadn't grown up enough, because I thought it would be amusing to post a chapter that made absolutely no sense at all. But you know, another year has passed. I've matured some more, though maybe still not enough. Either way, I now present to you the real final chapter of the trilogy known as _Fear of Ghosts_. Have fun.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The door screeches behind me as I slide it shut. A flying mass of black hair and pale skin has already thrown arms around me.

"Where in the world have you been?" my girlfriend asks. It's an empty question, we both know what day it is, but that doesn't mean she is able to keep the hint of accusation and questioning out of her tone.

"I ran into someone today," I respond, and frown immediately. I've never given her an explanation before, and I don't know what is prompting me to do so now.

My girlfriend's face fills with surprise, but she quickly grabs hold of the opening and asks, "Who?"

"Just," my hands fiddle around with the pendant on my neck, and she glances at my mangled hands, "just someone from the past."

She seems torn between asking me further questions and tending to my hands. Finally she reaches for my hands, running a smooth thumb over a scraped knuckle and saying softly, "Here, let me take care of those for you."

Briefly I am reminded of why I am dating her in the first place, but nevertheless I clutch them against myself.

"No," I say, "I can tend to them myself."

"But thank you for the offer," I add hastily, noticing the hurt and shock in her expression.

She is slow to respond, and an awkward silence stretches out between us. "Sure," she says slowly, at last. The silence envelopes the atmosphere again, and at length I say lightly, "So what's for dinner?"

She shrugs. "I don't feel like cooking today," she says, "maybe we should go out to eat?" She is wearing charcoal-colored sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a pink bunny on it.

"Yeah," I respond, "yeah, we could go do that."

Neither of us make a move. I fidget nervously, my hands twitching, keeping my gaze to the corner, where a spider web has mysteriously appeared. I've never been very good at situations like this. I feel a cool hand on my cheek and I stand still. It turns my head so that I am staring into my girlfriend's dark brown eyes, my own reflection caught in her pupils. She leans forward and kisses me softly, strawberry lip gloss on the tip of my tongue – she's always enjoyed using makeup, even when she's at home, and now that I can taste her lip gloss I also notice the fresh coat of mascara she's applied to her eyes – and her arms wrap around me, her fingers brushing against the small of my back. I respond in kind, kissing her delicately, and suddenly she is attacking me with her lips ferociously, trailing sticky lip gloss down my neck. I stumble backwards, and together we knock open the whitewashed door and collapse on the striped blue-and-green covers of the bed.

Later, as I trace her jawline, she begins, "That person you met today…"

I'm surprised and stop caressing her. "Yeah?"

"Did you use to love her?"

I don't know how to respond to that. No would be a blatant lie, and yes would imply that I don't love Konoka anymore, and that is an egregious lie too. I say nothing instead, and resume trailing my finger down her jaw again.

She takes my silence as an answer, too, and smiles wryly before kissing me softly on the cheek.

"Goodnight," she whispers, and flips over so that she is facing away from me. I try to spoon her, but she squirms away, allowing me only to hold her hand.

In the morning I wake up to the smell of devil's tails. My girlfriend is sitting at the table in the corner, munching on them and sipping from a bowl of soymilk. She greets me as I stumble over to a chair. The ground is cold on my bare feet. 

"I'm moving out in a week," she announces. I stop stretching my hand towards the devil's tails and blink at her in surprise. She shrugs.

"You should call your old friend up," she says. In her face is resignation. I feel horrible.

"Listen," I start, "I haven't talked to her for years, and-" She cuts me off.

"You should talk to her then," she says. Her voice is insistent. There is an urgency in there I have never heard before. I stare at her wordlessly. There are bags under her eyes.

"Your breakfast is going to get cold," she says, and avoids my eyes.

* * *

I don't know where to start looking for Konoka. Tokyo is too large of a city to look for anything, really, even if you know where to start. Tokyo is where one becomes lost, not where one is found. That's why I started a new life here. It's proving to be a royal pain in the ass right now. 

After my morning classes I spend the rest of my day in the university library. It is crammed with students, even though term exams have only been over for a week, and I wait fifteen minutes before I am outfitted with a computer.

The screen flashes at me and I enter my student ID number and password. 1494731, konoka318. I do not use my school account very much.

Once in, I log onto my girlfriend's Facebook account. I do not have one myself; when I said I did not want to be found, I truly meant it. A quick search, 'konoka', reveals thousands of matches, and 'konoka konoemon' is just about as helpful, revealing no one. MySpace does not turn up any information either, just an endless stream of pop-up ads screaming about diet pills and the latest video game consoles, and an embarrassing blast of music that I quickly silence.

My allotted computer time shrivels up and soon enough a library attendant strides over to tell me in a mellow voice that it is someone else's turn on the computer now. I thank her with a smile and don my brown messenger bag. I check out a thin book on tricks for multivariable calculus. I still have a life to lead, after all.

Back at the apartment my girlfriend lounges on the couch and frowns in a way that means I have not been very smart about things. She does that a lot. I collapse next to her and watch the martial arts scene unfolding on the television screen in front of us.

"Why didn't you call any of your old friends instead?" she asks.

"I, I don't really keep in touch with any of them," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye I see her furrow an eyebrow. She has no makeup on today.

"Not a single one? None at all?" she queries. "There isn't anyone you can call up at all? No one you can find easily and just call?" She means them as questions to help me think of people I can contact, but her words are laced with annoyance and frustration at my attitude.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say. I focus on the roundhouse kick the actor on television is performing as he leaps off the shingled rooftops. His foot is pronated; in a real fight he would break his ankle doing that. But otherwise it looks decent.

"Don't be sorry," she sighs beside me, and rises.

"I'm going to work," she announces, swapping her shorts for a pair of dress pants and shrugging on a black dress shirt and a pea coat. "If you haven't gotten any new leads by the time I come back, I'll take tomorrow off and we'll look for this girl together, okay?"

"I'll find her," I say. She smiles briefly, then slips into her heels and clicks out the door. I sink into the couch for a few minutes before rising.

Finding Konoka really shouldn't be that hard. It is more a matter of swallowing my pride than anything. I dial the number Negi gave me some time ago, the last time I ever saw anyone from my past.

A deepened voice answers the phone, and although the last time we met his voice had cracked and changed already, it still startles me. Somewhere I am still expecting a squeaky child's voice. A childhood.

"Hello? Hello?"

I had almost forgotten to answer.

"Yes, yes, hi. Umm… This is Sakurazaki Setsuna."

A stint of silence on the other end.

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"

"Sakurazaki Setsuna. Is this Negi?"

"Yeah, yeah it is. I… sorry. Hello, Setsuna."

"Hello, Negi-sama."

Awkwardness. "Ahh, I'm not really a teacher-type anymore. But um, how are you?"

"Fine, thank you very much. And you?"

We make small talk for a few minutes, until Negi finally gets to the point.

"So, um, what can I do for you?"

"Well," I stumble, feeling a little bit ashamed for no reason at all, "I was wondering if you might have, if you might have… Konoka-san's phone number."

If Negi notices anything strange about the way I say Konoka's name, he makes no mention of it.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he says brightly, a hint of his eagerness to help creeping into his voice. "Her grandfather keeps in regular touch with me. He's still trying to find a suitor for her. Can you believe that? He even tried to set _me_ up with her once I became of age!" Amused laughter bursts out of him, but it abruptly stops. I can almost hear the frown appearing on his face.

Negi attempts a change of subject. "So uh, how's your girlfriend?" he asks. I almost want to laugh. Still tactless. Some things never change.

"She's moving out in a week," I say lightly. This will end the conversation quickly.

"Oh. Um, I'm sorry." He gives me Konoka's phone number and hangs up soon after that.

* * *

81359420. I sit at the table frowning at it for what seems like hours. I almost pick up the black handle of the telephone, but I decide to crack open my calculus book instead. I have a problem set due in two days. 

At around midnight I hear the lock to the door click. My girlfriend struts in, running a hand through her hair.

"How was work?" I ask absently.

"Same old, same old," she replies, "How did your search go?"

"I have her number," is my answer.

"…But you haven't called it, right?" she asks.

"No."

She sighs. "You're such a coward, Setsuna-chan."

I have nothing to say to that.

"I'm going to bed," she announces, "If by the time you come to bed you have no new information, you're sleeping on the sofa tonight."

I am used to far worse sleeping conditions, but she doesn't know that. Still…

I glance down at my problem set. Two more problems to go. I can do those tomorrow.

I do not pick up the receiver for another half hour. When I finally do, the tone I hear rends the silence I have been sitting in apart. It is unsettling.

Slowly, I punch the numbers in. The phone begins to ring.

"Moshi moshi, Konoe residence."

It is a deep, decidedly male voice. I'm startled.

"Um, is, uh, Konoe Konoka there?" I stammer, my voice crackling like dried tea leaves.

I can hear the silence on the other end become alert, poised to strike. This man is her bodyguard. I feel waves of hurt wash over me, but I shake them off.

"State your name please," he commands.

"Sakurazaki Setsuna," I say.

Pause. "What number were you in junior high and who was your teacher?"

I'm surprised this guy knows this information about me.

"15, Negi Springfield."

"What do you wish to do with Konoe-sama?"

"Uh, I just want to meet up and talk."

"Konoe-sama has retired for the night. I will relay your message to her, and you may call back tomorr-"

"Wait!" A female voice interrupts the bodyguard. It is Konoka.

"Secchan," she gasps into the phone.

"…Ojou-sama," I say.

* * *

We make plans to meet at Takeshi's Café, next to my university, for lunch. Fear grips me as I put down the receiver. I am making a mistake. I know it. My heart beats like a madman. I spend the night staring at the neon green digits of the alarm clock. 

The second the sun rises I am off, in my shorts and t-shirt, running. I run without direction, and several times I almost trip over a homeless person. Today is going to be beautiful. I buy some steamed buns on the way home.

My girlfriend has woken up by the time I return home, and after I take a shower we eat in silence. I stare at the rose-tinted models on the calendar next to the dining table, and she stares at her textbook.

"Can I meet her sometime?" she asks, suddenly.

"I… I guess," I respond.

We lapse into silence again. After a few moments she rises to leave for class.

* * *

Takeshi's Café is a swank place. Oddly-shaped lamps hang from its ceiling, and its walls are various pastel shades of red. Uncomfortable stainless steel stools are aligned in a semi-circle around the bumblebee yellow countertop, and chairs of the same style are arranged in quartets around goldenrod square and trapezoidal tables. Booths, styled burgundy with yellow paint splashes, align the walls. 

The moment I walk in I spot Konoka. She stands out like a sore thumb, her elegant black dress and simple silver chains sucking up the casual chic of the restaurant. She is fiddling with a gold and silver clutch, aristocratic fingers dancing over the embroidery, an amethyst ring twirling in their midst.

I am amazed. This is not Konoka from my childhood, or even Konoka from a few days ago. She sees me pausing at the door. For a moment she hesitates, a look of doubt on her face, but she instantly composes herself again and strides over confidently. Her heels click against the linoleum. There is no trace of the past in her expression.

"Sakurazaki-san," she says cordially. She extends her hand. We are strangers.

I shake it, a little stiffly. She is making me uncomfortable. I am ashamed to admit that I either expected a tearful reunion or else an angry awkwardness with both parties. But not a gorgeously composed woman treating me like an acquaintance she has met for perhaps the third or fourth time.

I feel underdressed.

The waiter, deeming the introductory gestures to be over, briskly leads us to a booth. He sets two metal-rimmed menus down on the table and runs off to another table. A painting adorns the maroon wall next to us, decorated in the same fashion as our seats.

"Jackson Pollock?" I question.

Konoka raises an eyebrow. "Probably not," she says, "But it's similar. It's nice to know you've been reading up on your art history," she says.

"I took a class," I shrug.

Konoka picks up her menu and flips through it. I mimic her actions, although I already know what I am going to order. I don't deviate and try new things very often.

"What sorts of food would you recommend here?" she asks.

I shrug again. "Their burgers and fries are good," I say. "Anything resembling fish I would stay away from."

She squints at the menu for a second longer, then places it down with a sigh. A secretive smile flicks across her face, the hints of it still tugging at the corners of her mouth. She looks far too cute doing that.

The waiter comes back around. He whisks the pen he has tucked behind his ear out and poises it at his notepad.

"Are you ready to order?"

We nod. I gesture at Konoka. He looks at her expectantly. She nods her head at me. I roll my eyes.

"I'll have a buffalo wrap please," I inform him.

Across the table, Konoka looks surprised and a little alarmed. The small smile has disappeared off her face.

"I'll uh, have the same thing?" she says.

As soon as the waiter has left, Konoka grabs my hand urgently and says, "Secchan, what did I just order?"

"A buffalo wrap?" I answer, a little confused.

"Is there-" her eyes bulge out, "is there real _buffalo_ in there?"

I can't help it. I burst out into laughter. After I calm down I explain to her what a buffalo wrap is. She starts giggling too, until she suddenly realizes again what she has ordered.

"But Secchan, I don't like spicy things!"

I shrug mischievously. She mock-glares at me.

"Seccch-" she begins to whine, but stops mid-sentence. She seems to have suddenly remembered that we are not friends anymore.

"Oh, fuck whatever they told me to call you," she grumbles to herself.

I jump in surprise.

"Swearing?"

She smirks at me. Her cool demeanor is completely gone.

"You should hear what I say to my dear grandfather these days. He's still trying to set me up with a lovely husband in a respectable profession with oodles of money to pamper me to death."

I nod in sympathy.

"I don't even think he realizes that I'm not interested in men!" she rants.

I nod in mock sympathy. Konoka scowls at me.

"Well it's not like you've told him," I point out.

She scowls even more.

"Actually, I did. His reaction was to introduce me to younger men instead. He thought by men I meant I didn't like older men."

"Maybe you should grow a Mohawk instead," I muse, "That would definitely make him wonder about some things."

Konoka looks horrified.

"And you know," I continue, "you could color it all sorts of great fluorescent colors…"

Konoka looks like she is going to cry at the idea of doing all those terrible things to her hair.

"I'm kidding, of course," I say hurriedly, "it was just an idea."

She pauses.

"Well," she says, "I suppose I could die my hair pink."

I have an irresistible urge to smile. I smile.

"You're so girly."

She glares. The waiter chooses then to arrive with our orders, setting identical plates of glowing red buffalo chicken wraps in front of us. He flutters off as Konoka prods her buffalo wrap dubiously.

"It's… glowing."

"I know," I say, before biting into my wrap.

Konoka picks up the wrap hesitantly and takes a tiny bite into it. Her eyes begin to water.

"It's, it's it's so spiiiicyyyy!" she wails, tears streaming out of her eyes.

"Konoka-san," I announce through my mouthful of food, "you are so. Girly."

She blinks, and then for some reason suddenly begins to laugh. I don't know why, but I begin to laugh too; chunks of buffalo chicken spray out of my mouth, and even as I choke in embarrassment I laugh more and more.

It feels comfortable.

* * *

Somehow we end up taking a taxi to Konoka's mansion; I think Konoka invited me there. We spend the entire ride telling childhood stories to each other and laughing at our stupidity. But we don't tread beyond that area. 

When we get there, Konoka strides leisurely towards the double oak front doors, but I rear back, suddenly overtaken by cowardice. I don't want to be seen by the guards and the maids. Konoka, ever observant, takes my hand and walks around through the bramble bushes and a grove of orange trees to the left side of her mansion instead.

She points up to a window on the third floor, adorned by hunter green and brown polka-dot curtains. Light peeps through them.

"That's my room," she whispers. She scurries underneath the window, where I notice a ladder is hiding. I walk over to help her upright the ladder.

"You do this often?"

"I do a lot of things, now."

We climb the steps quietly, making sure not to disturb the sentries. Somehow I'm sure they know about this, because if they didn't they would be very bad guards indeed and would likely have been fired long ago. Konoka confirms this by simply pushing her ladder over once we're in the room, letting it fall with a loud crash.

"I think the only person who probably didn't hear that was your grandfather," I remark dryly.

"I know," she replies, "isn't it great?"

She sighs with dismay as she notices the condition of the room though. It is a mess; books are stacked in random columns across the floor, with clothes strewn haphazardly over them. Crumpled-up papers are gathered around a wire trash bin that is overflowing.

"I can help you," I say as Konoka begins rushing around, picking everything up and throwing it into a corner. She does not seem to be very good at cleaning.

"Make the bed," is all Konoka says.

"Why don't you have a servant clean your room?" I ask as I clear the mass of textbooks, highlighters and pens off the bed.

"I don't like using servants, they always treat me as some sort of higher being, rather than just a friend or another person," she growls.

That hurts a little. I throw a pink-and-purple spiral print pillow at her.

"Hey!" she exclaims. She whips it back at me, smiling a little. "Put that back where it belongs!"

As I place the pillow down Konoka suddenly tackles me, crushing me and tickling with her fingers. I giggle uncontrollably.

"S-s-stop!" I gasp out.

"Neverrrr!" she growls, increasing the intensity.

"Kono-channnn," I whine, turning redder and redder. I feel like a radioactive tomato.

She stops tickling me, and a faraway look enters her eyes. Absentmindedly she begins to trace circles around the fabric of my clothing. I grow afraid at the silence, and am more and more uncomfortable by the second.

"You," she says quietly, "you called me Konochan."

I don't know what the feeling is, but it's like falling in a bottomless abyss, a black dread that fills you like a water balloon, stripped of everything but a thin membrane, and you're waiting for the floor to come just so gravity will finally rush up to greet you so that your bones can finally grind into –

"Secchan," she breathes. I focus on her voice. I want to run away.

"Secchan," she repeats.

"K-kono," I begin to say, but pause. My throat has become a circle of sandpaper. I swallow and try again. "Kono-chan," I whisper.

She looks at me like she sees me again, and her eyes are still unfathomable but they are blackened and intense. They are broken and reset and I do not know I have fallen backwards until she puts out her hands and pins me down gently on her snow white comforter. It burns, and as she leans in to kiss me her long black hair falls around her like a solar eclipse, shadowing her face. Time slows down.

We remove our clothes and do not speak. Her breath is ragged as I reach out to touch her, and it is languid, and anguished, and I cannot breathe. Her skin burns.

We make love, and it is not tender, and it is not frantic. It is angry, and resentful, and slow, so, so slow. She sinks her teeth into eight years of grief. I kiss my way down eight years of pain. We make love to the future. We make love to bury the past. It is not enjoyable.

When we are finished I feel exhausted. There are too many emotions, too much time. Konoka is looking at me, her face still half in shadow. The moonlight illuminates the other half in an eerie way, and her eyes are unreadable.

"Can you forgive me?" I whisper.

Her face falls apart.

"Oh, Secchan," she says.

A rush of warm air envelopes me. It is like there had been a ghost in the room; a cold, bitter, crystalline ghost, and it had just melted, drops of sorrow evaporating into thin air.

"Kono-chan," I murmur.

* * *

In the morning I wake up. I don't recognize my surroundings; it's all lilac and pink and warm soothing colors. Suddenly I remember where I am.

"Fuck," I groan.

"No swearing, Setsuna," a voice chastises me. Konoka has appeared in the doorway of the room. She's wearing an apron, and a chef's hat sags awkwardly on her hair.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask, gesturing at the hat.

Konoka grins. "Just something I like to wear when I cook food," she says, "it's kind of cute, don't you think?"

I blush in response and flash a tiny smile at her. Her smile grows wider.

"I've made breakfast," she says.

"Coming," I say. I roll out of the bed.

Konoka turns red and coughs a little.

"What," I ask.

"Oh I don't know," she says mischievously, "but you might want to put some clothes on."

"I… oh."

She runs to her closet and rummages through it, throwing me a red t-shirt and red pajama bottoms.

"They'll go well with the color of your skin," she says.

I growl at her and she giggles.

* * *

"You know," Konoka comments over the glass table, "people don't change so much," sipping her cup of coffee. 

"You're drinking coffee," I point out.

"I know," Konoka agrees, "and I can probably swear better than you too, but I meant that however else they change, people still want the same things."

I pause my absent-minded perusal of the newspaper.

"I think," I say haltingly, "that I'm waiting for a second chance with someone I love."

I stare straight at Konoka.

A slow smile spreads across her face.

"You've grown up, Secchan," she says.

She leans over and kisses me.

* * *

IT'S DONE. Wow. That took far too long. Obviously unedited, but hey, it's up! It's up! I'm done! I'm done! 

I hope you enjoyed that, I truly apologize, again, for the long delay, I hope you can forgive me, and I wish you all good tidings in your Kono-Setsu shipping!


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